• thisisby.us writing
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    • Party of One

Daughter of the King

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Daughter of the King

Tag Archives: conversation

O on the R Train [full]

08 Tuesday Nov 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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Tags

assumption, character, Christian, city, conversation, downtown, homeless, judgment, life, new york, New York City, NYC, subway, train, underground, urban

He and a thin, middle-aged Asian man in a polo shirt were looking to sit at the same time. Both would rest in seats near me when the choosing was done. I could see the decisions being made in the subtle shifting of their eyes. I, myself, had only chosen to sit on account of—earlier—choosing the wrong shoes. To wear, yes. But also to buy and to keep. They hurt my feet; I could feel the blister near my big toe, where I’ll grow a bunion in my old age, like my grandmother did.

The Asian man sat first, two seats from me, leaving the only space on the bench the one next to me. This seat, the other man took, the one whose name I learned shortly after his sitting and also immediately forgot, whether for it’s tribal-slash-ethnic complexities through which it forced my tongue, or my desired separation with the absurd experience that ensued—which, I’m unsure.

It started with an “O” sound.

O asked for the time. No reason not to oblige. He asked if the R train stopped at 9th Avenue. I didn’t know where the train stopped, but was excited about the newly acquired map I carried, so we looked. The R train didn’t stop there. Stopped at 4th Avenue and 9th Street deep in Brooklyn. O seemed fine with that and so, seeing that we were done here, I returned my posture to neutral. I folded my arms over my purse. Sipped my water bottle to chase away the subway stifle. I ended the conversation as I assumed was natural. Politely, of course. Following, of course, all unwritten rules of social interaction. And apart from the deafening drone of the city, enjoyed, of course, the silence between us. Until—

He came again with I’m sorry’s and By the way’s. First about my tattoo—what does it say? Do I know what verse refers to the phrase? And, by the way, am I a Christian? Will I listen to what he has to say—over email, by phone, can he have my number—some day?

The R train came then. No, I said in response, followed by audible ellipses. I’m not from here, I told him.

These cruxes, for me, are difficult crossroads in stranger-conversation. Telling nice people “no”. Folks who seem well-meaning and engaging, who aren’t trying to sell me something, it seems cruel. I feel cruel doing it.

O presses me for contact information and steps in after me onto the traincar.

I survey the car, it’s not full; I’ll be able to slide into a seat. There’s even room for me to walk the length of the car and sit away from O without too much trouble. This is the train that will take me to Wall Street to see my fiancée behind the bar at his fancy restaurant. The track can’t disappear under steel wheels fast enough. All my syllables take ten minutes. I grab a pole and look back at O.

Ma-a-a-aybe—not, I tell him. About the e-mail, I mean. I give not reason. Just let the words be all. He apologizes. Twice. It’s alright, I say. It was nice talking to you.

While I sit facing away from O, after walking the length of the car to find a solitary seat, I sip the last drops in my water bottle and wait for Rector. Not a minute passes—

Excuse me, miss, do I mind if he sits? He’s no good at clues or social conduct, but his mistakes are harmless to me. I acquiesce to more by-the-ways.

Lots of questions, no time for answers. He wants to ask, struggles to listen. Or doesn’t really want to hear. I can’t tell which.

I tell him about the community at Mozart and about teaching high school English. About singing tenor in the choir to Brooklyn Tabernacle arrangements. He likes that. About Tim Keller’s church here in New York and their songwriter’s union. He shares with me what he calls a song, some scratch on a journal page.

And then I ask on innocent ground if he lives around here. Maybe I’ll know the borough. I can look on my map and he can point a finger in the right direction. For this, I was unprepared. He gave no standard signs. Wore a hoodie from a group—maybe a concert or a club. Light blue. Every kind of unthreatening. His greatest crime was annoyance. No smells. No shopping bags. Not until the train creaked and ground to slower speeds at Rector Street, where I would leave, did I notice that he put his notebook into a plastic grocery bag. There were a bunch of books in there. A Bible, I saw, another journal, maybe. The bag was full. It was the only sign.

He’s from Brooklyn, he says first. He was from there some time ago, he then says, something of a correction from the first. He lives on the subways now, at which point the exclamation points take over all creases and crevices of my brain, making any form of logical thought totally impossible. I cannot respond; I’m reasonably sure I was not even in control of my facial responses at this time. He meant to tell me that I was, in fact, sitting in his home at this present time? Huh. I guess I couldn’t blame him for trailing me when I was trying to escape him, then.

I didn’t think of it then, about how complex the system, about how intricate the tunnels, how one swipe gains you access to a seemingly endless labyrinth of corners, crannies, paths, all layers and layers beneath a city of millions of scurrying feet. How, in winter, it’s quite brilliant in ways. There are trains that never stop running. Heating your home for free.

But, in response, in the moment, I was useless to engage, to respond. My stop was here. The doors were opening, I was standing up. I was reviewing our interaction, fooled into thinking he was—what?—like me? There must have been tiny signs to hint at the abnormality of our conversation. Why am I calling it a conversation when I tried to quit talking with him time after time? We weren’t conversing, he was bothering me. Regardless of my efforts at escapism, nothing had made me categorize him as homeless, until he said it without effort. A fluid confession and my reaction, on which everything may have rested. Maybe that’s just it. I should never have categorized him like I do, like we all do, too quickly, quarantining him to a sect I refuse to speak to or sit near. Maybe being bothered by O wasn’t my greatest problem.

Elevator Linguistics

28 Friday Oct 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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Tags

babies, baby, children, city, conversation, culture, English, ethnicity, experience, family, language, Latin, life, men, New York City, NYC, people, pregnancy, pregnant, relationships, sex, social security, spanish, urban

The woman who was in line ahead of me at the social security office is ahead of me, still, at the elevators to exit. We stand with another woman and her stroller.

“How old?”

Silence, the most brief.

“Cuantos anos?”

“Tres meses.” The woman from the line gasps and peers into the stroller, then cups her own belly, which I hadn’t noticed beneath her layers.

“Oh my God! Seis meses,” Rubbing her belly, still, the elevator lights up, dings, opens. We all climb on. In Spanish, now, the women coo and laugh about their children. Unmarried, each with more children at home and small children in strollers or bellies right here at social security, the elevator fills with beautiful Latin linguistics. They don’t know that I know.

Another ding, door opens, we exit. She turns to me, the bellied, vibrant one, not in Spanish, but accented in a way she can’t help.

“I hardly gained a pound, you see? You can’t even tell I’m pregnant.” She pulls back her vest and shows her belly nested in a thermal as we walk.

“Wow.” I’m smiling, but unsure of what to say. I can’t understand the comment she makes next, but assume it’s in English. Then,

“You can’t depend on a man these days. Have to do it all yourself.” So matter of fact, she makes her last statements. And with a wave, hustles out the door of the social security first floor and around the corner, skinny jeans hugging pregnant thighs.

I stand perfectly still in the sunlight and cold air at the intersection wondering at the impossible gap between our two lives. Yes you can—should I have told her? And, no—you don’t have to.

Bearing Burdens

11 Wednesday May 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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Tags

burden, conversation, emotion, God, healing, love, marriage, pain, past, relationship, sharing, unity

I’ve carried my burdens.
Bore them for miles.
Hesitant, resilient to impart my trials.
To share too deeply,
With anyone, really.

It’s not trust, I don’t think fear
Not instability or feeling irresolute.
It’s the way I know it weighs down,
And how I’ll be to blame.
The way it will weigh love
Make your love for me swing low
With my trials, my shame.

When I give my sh*t to God,
He doesn’t flinch, move, budge an inch.
His heart hurts with my hurts,
But he heals as I wound, clots while I bleed,
Mends as I rip stiches with my breaths, gasp and heave.
I pile my sh*t on you, and you ache, anger, bleed.
It’s with me and for me, which should stop my re-shame.
It doesn’t, I throb, wishing my mess back into my own depth.
Wondering if keeping to myself
Would’ve just been best.

These breaths we take together.
Our steps, some pained, are measured.
This is what it is to share.
To come out from my corner, alone,
To say I promise, I’m weak, I’m yours.
For you to promise, I’ll stay.
Yours is ours.

No longer.

30 Saturday Apr 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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Tags

broken, city, communication, community, conversation, friends, hate, judgment, life, past, relationship, wrong

I used to check up–
Where were you checking in?

Dinner, downtown.
Goblets of the wrong size.
Red wine.

A little bit of highway–
Daylight savings time.

I said no for reasons I can’t describe;
I didn’t lie.
You have no right.

Moments that Make Marathons

15 Friday Apr 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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coffee, conversation, distance, driving, future, life, love, marathon, marriage, moments, perspective, relationship, Starbucks, travel, waiting

Her coffee was too hot, she said. She usually tells them not to make it so hot. When they do, she can’t drink it right away and she hates that. I wondered, when she said hate, if she really hates it or if it’s just something she doesn’t like very much. I’m always wondering about things like that.

She stirred the whip cream, melted it into her coffee with a wooden stick from the coffee bar. Talked about how, today, differently than some of her yesterdays, she would shake nutmeg and cinnamon into her travel mug and see how her taste buds appreciated the gesture.

I hope it keeps me awake on my way to Flint, she said.

She invited me into her conversation, and I took a step I hadn’t planned on taking. The one on my map led me back to my table, to my isolation, brewing in mediocre circumstances, trying to grade papers. My map used terse words and fake smiles. But the step I took was off the map, it went beyond the hatred I feel for a commitment I must fulfill honorably, with excellence. It left papers ungraded. It spoke with patience for a relationship that must wait behind phone calls and weekend flights to spend forever. It worried not about me; it listened and found waiting unobtrusive.

Her husband, I learned, works across the state and she’s driving across to see him. They’ve been doing this for two years. And will do it still for one more.

I thought fleetingly, while she was sharing, of the eight-hundred miles that separate me and Brad, and how we struggle to appreciate this far-away time before being together, proximally, permanently. About how she was trying something fresh and new, something as simple as spices in her coffee, after two years of regular separation from her permanent lover. Her spices gave me perspective.

Good luck, honey, she said as she left. For what remained of our relationship between Michigan and New York, she meant. Even though she was the one driving to bridge the chasm in a marriage. Three-hundred miles, maybe. Between two that are supposed to be one.

Good luck to you two, she says, and climbs in the van on her way to Flint.

Fallen

31 Thursday Mar 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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caution, church, conversation, couple, dating, dinner, falling in love, feelings, guard your heart, guilt, life, love, question, relationship

Her words ring in my ears hours after our dinner is finished.

I just want to caution you, she says, laying her palm flat on the table. This is important enough to unhand her water class, the stems of which we are both fingering in the spaces of a conversation wading between tense and friendly.

Be careful to guard your heart.

I’m certain not to run round and round with my words, saying only exactly what I mean, and in the least amount of syllables. I want to be heard, understood, if accepted and loved.

What do you mean, not snotty or snide, but honest and seeking. I want her to explain, practically what this churchy verbage is all about.

Well, it sounds like you’re falling in love with him, her voice is gentle, as if to lead me in to something that might shock me, startle me, leave me breathless.

That’s the phrase that keeps ringing and ringing.

She’s just learning now. Am I guilty for how I didn’t help her see sooner, or disappointed for how she didn’t read between the lines of my life? I’ve been waiting dinner after dinner after dinner to make sure she knows this. And so—

Oh Ruth, I sigh, both hands on the table, a symbol of frankness, a pause, I already have. Sure not to say that I already am, because it’s not that I am falling, it’s not happening now, currently, today. She missed that. That was in Bible college, on Chicago streets, sushi bars, dark concert halls, at the zoo, on the train, in the lyrics of his songs. There were months and years that built today. Today, there is only commitment.

REPOST: A Thousand Times

27 Sunday Feb 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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communication, conversation, dating, denial, future, life, no, relationship

A reposted entry from nearly three months ago.

Said no over coffee, commercial or cozy, twice or more
Over cider at dark cedar bars, yes, another—
Sitting on a picnic blanket, planes above, the lake a walk away
In snowfall, my socks wet with slush soaking in
With words, over messaging, staying home, saying simple no’s—
In the car, long roads home, sitting on the bumper in the drive
Over sushi, it’s someone else—
Practicing for a play, pretending, playing, pulling out
Over email, unpreferred, knew these words en route weeks ago.

Said no a thousand times.

One of these, by the math, has to be the last.

Repost: Trees and Choices

21 Friday Jan 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Adam and Eve, atheism, beginning, Bible, choice, conversation, God, love, question, study

I wanted to add something to this discussion. Wanted to expound and expand, saying that I agree and I had this other brilliant thought, too. But as I read the post of my dear friend, Jim, I just nodded along, head bobbing in agreement, vocal chords humming in thoughtful acknowledgement, chuckles erupting from my throat at his perfect tone.

I can add nothing. Great exploration. Great questions that folks like me don’t explore often enough. Maybe this is what it looks like, sounds like, to put away our mess and try to figure out truth. Ask real questions, the answers of which might surprise us. We assume far too often. Take a quick read-through: Trees and Choices.

Too Soon

13 Thursday Jan 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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conversation, death, discussion, friends, friendship, love, memory, past, shame, sickness, suicide, summer, time

She doesn’t mind talking about it. After all, it’s been three years since. In mixed context, they make jokes and say, Too soon? in jest, with smiles. I’m the only one who thinks it still is. I wonder if ever it will be otherwise. If ever Late enough.

I hate to narrate the day. Loathe the way we lean over the details. When we remember and rehearse the hours before and after she didn’t die. I hate my mind’s rememberlessness of every moment. I’m angry at the slices of time wedged in the in-betweens, the pieces of chaos pasted haphazardly brainward.

I’m selfish, too, lost in shame that I couldn’t be the savior of the story. That it wasn’t me who found her obsessively cleaning, drunk on drugs; me who drove her to safety, soaking in every warbled word; me with reams of wisdom, righting all wrongs past. She’s better now. It’s fine. She’s my friend, still. She’s alive.

But they don’t mind talking about it. And I’m stuck in Too soon.

Ring on the Coffee Cup

09 Sunday Jan 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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coffee, conversation, eveing, friendship, life, living, love, Michigan, morning, nomadic, regret, travel, traveler, visit

Your coffee’s still on the nightstand. It’s been days since you’ve gone. Since you slept the night twice and we did up the days, philosophizing life over hot dogs and cards games. We don’t live high society. Too often, we shirk responsibility. We travel and talk of travel, one no more than the neighbor.

The coffee cup’s half full; you never bottom up. It marbles when I nudge the spoon, your creamer settling heavy on the ceramic floor. The ring inside the cup evolves with each evening. It’s grown and adapted, changed; I’ll need to soak it away for days. As if soapy-watered days can erase.

The nightstand’s not even mine. Nor the bed, the blankets, the coffee cup. I stay for a while to turn my wheels and find solid ground, quick kicking up dust. But I haven’t planted. I move, you move. We travel and talk of travel, nomadic. We leave behind rings on the coffee cup and bits of us hanging in the air.

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